


If Only They Were Dragons

by crossingwinter



Series: Rhaella Series [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They would make fine dragons, her sons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only They Were Dragons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theelusiveflamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/gifts).



> My research tells me that Princess Martell might not have been dead at this point. But she’s dead in my fic because I can, and details about her are sparse to begin with.
> 
> Additionally, a warning for implied past sexual violence.

It was raining outside, the quiet light rain of springtime.  She had left the windows of her solar open and a faint breeze made the curtains flutter as salt air heavy with moisture filled the room.  She wished that the candles would catch the salt and make the flame burn blue green, as the logs did on Dragonstone.  But instead of the ghostly turquoise, the room glowed orange and red.  
  
She sat with Elia, needle in hand, embroidering a doublet for Viserys.  She had chosen a sigil for him, knowing the king wouldn’t care, a red dragon in flight on quartered black and red.  A good sigil, a strong sigil for the little Prince of Summerhall.  
  
She supposed she should try and convince Aerys to have the old castle rebuilt for his son.  He would need some place of his own when he grew older, especially once Rhaegar had a son whose right would be Dragonstone.  
  
A thought for later, when her King was home, she supposed.  Surely it would not be too long.  
  
She smiled over at Viserys, who was drawing by the fireplace on the slate that he should be using to learn his letters.  He was drawing dragons again—his favorite.  Rhaegar had been diligent with learning his letters, even at three.  He had copied them every day, and put them in different orders for fun until he could write them quickly and prettily.  She'd always been astonished how lovely Rhaegar’s writing was.  Not so with her younger son.  
  
“Would that the letters were dragons," she murmured, “He’d learn them in a heartbeat.” Viserys had memorized the names of all the dragon skulls in the throne room—Balerion, Dreamfyre, Meraxes…even Rhaella did not have them all memorized, but her three-year-old son did.  
  
Elia chuckled quietly.  “He’ll learn them.  If Oberyn could learn them, so will Viserys.  Viserys is not half so much trouble as Oberyn was.”  
  
“That,” Rhaella replied dryly, “I can believe.”  
  
“I think he made Maester Argyle cry once.”  
  
“I do not think Viserys has ever done that.”  
  
“He’s young yet—there is time.”  
  
She was a sweet girl, Elia Martell.  So very unlike her mother.  Nymeria Martell had been wild, crude, and uncontrollable—a fine companion if ever there had been one.  Nymeria and Joanna had made it their mission to make her smile at least once a day, as they reminded her frequently.  And yet Nymeria and Joanna were both dead now, their smiles and clever little jests lost to her forever, while their daughters, unlike them in every way, were at court now.  Elia was quiet, sweet, reserved—though there was a trace of her mother's biting wit in her, to be sure—while Cersei Lannister was as vibrant as her mother had been, but proud—haughty, even—in a way that was so unlike Joanna.  
  
“Do not wish that upon me," Rhaella sighed.  “My mother used to say that if you wish ill on a mother while you await a child, your babe will be thrice worse.”  
  
Elia laughed, her eyes softening.  “I would be impressed if my son could be half so bad as Oberyn.” She placed a hand on her belly.  It was not swollen just yet, but Pycelle said that she was, without a doubt, expecting a child.  The Gods had been good, and Elia’s frequent illnesses had merely been her body’s adjustment to the new babe—nothing more sinister.  Rhaella had worried—they all had—that Elia would be sickly like her father.  But it seemed that she had her mother’s constitution, and Nymeria had given her consort many children, even if only three had survived…  
  
Three grandchildren…The thought almost made Rhaella's heart sing.  Little boys named Jahaerys and Aemon and Maegor, or little girls named Daenerys and Daena and Helaena.  Once she'd dreamed of surrounding herself with children, the only comfort she could find for marrying Aerys.  But he had hardly taken to her bed, and she'd only had her quiet boy for so many years.  But if Elia was fertile…she would have children aplenty and what more could she give Viserys than little nieces and nephews to play with.  Viserys would not be half so lonely as Rhaegar had been.  He would laugh and smile and play.  True enough, Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington had been good and true friends to her eldest son, but they did not make him laugh.  She would have Viserys laugh.  
  
Elia's stitches were very fine as she wove golden thread through the flames of the sun on the blanket.  She was alternating little suns and little dragons in a truly delightful way.  The suns seemed to emerge from the dragons’ fire, and the dragons seemed to spring from the suns.  Truly clever.  She wondered if Nymeria would have thought of such a thing.  More like Nymeria would have thrown the whole thing into the fire and begun cursing in a way that was hardly befitting a Princess of Dorne.  And Joanna would sit there, biting her lip and stitching golden lions on red, keeping her tongue to herself.  How odd, that Nymeria's daughter would be more fitting as Joanna's daughter, and Joanna’s as Nymeria's.  Her two handmaidens would have laughed cheerfully at the thought.  Always cheerfully laughing, always smiling and plotting for their children to be wed to one another.  What would have happened if they'd lived?  What would have happened if Cersei had gone to Nymeria's house, or Elia to Joanna’s?  Would they have found second mothers there?  Or would it have rankled?  
  
“You have a faraway look,” Elia commented, “Please, Goodmother—” how wonderful it was to be called Goodmother! “what are you thinking?”  
  
“You remind me of Joanna, sometimes.  Not always, but enough.”  
  
Elia let out two quick spurts of quiet laughter.  “My mother used to say the same thing sometimes.  Usually when she was frustrated with me.  I hope you're not frustrated with me.”  
  
“Hardly.  Merely wistful.” For friends gone, for a happier day…If they had lived, would they be at Court now?  Joanna, with her imp and Nymeria with her newest horse?  Would they laugh with her?  Or would Joanna flinch whenever the King was in the room, quickly excuse herself?  
  
As if she’d sensed where Rhaella’s mind had gone, Elia asked, “I am sure that the King will be well.  Lord Darklyn would never hurt him. Not with Lord Tywin and Ser Barristan at the gates.”  
  
No, Lord Darklyn would never hurt Aerys.  He surely must know his cause was lost.  Surely he must…  
  
 _Couldn’t they just leave him there?_  
  
Oh, what a horrid thing to think!  How could she want such a thing?  For all her troubled soul and loneliness, surely she could never wish such an ill on her King, her husband, her brother?  Surely there was a place in the Seven Hells for those who thought such things.  Ser Bonifer had always said…but no.  She mustn’t think of Bonifer.  She mustn’t.  
  
“I am sure he will be well.  You are quite right, of course.  But a queen worries.”  
  
Elia reached out and took Rhaella's hand.  Hers was a warm hand, soft.  Nymeria's had been calloused from riding and—she'd heard it whispered—knife play.  Joanna's hands had always been soft.  “He shall be returned to us before you even know it.  And when he is, the realm will be at rights again.”  
  
“The realm will be at rights regardless, I’m sure,” Rhaella whispered.  The conciliatory smile on Elia's face vanished, and she glanced around nervously.  They were not alone in the room, after all. Prince Lewyn stood by the door and Ser Oswell was now sitting on the floor beside Viserys, asking him questions about the dragon. (“This one's named Meraxes.  She was ridden by my great great great great great great great grandmother Rhaenys.”) Neither seemed to be listening, but, of course, they never seemed to.  She smiled wanly at her gooddaughter, then picked slipped her needle through the linen on her lap.  
  
In and out, in and out, back and forth, red on black, red like blood on the fabric. She suddenly felt cold.   _No, do not think of blood on linen.  Do not think of it._  
  
How lovely it was forgetting pain and misery, even if it had brought her Viserys and Rhaegar.  
  
The door to the Solar swung open, and her son stood there, Arthur Dayne at his side.  
  
“My love,” Elia greeted him warmly, and he stooped to press a kiss to the top of her head.  She let her needle fall from her hand and placed her hand on his cheek as he did so.  “I hope the day was not hard.”  
  
“It is a hard thing to sit the throne,” Rhaegar said.  So serious—always so serious, this son of hers.  “And tiring.  I never knew…”  
  
“Lord Tywin should return to aid you.  Surely Ser Barristan can take Duskendale without him.  It is his place to rule while the King is away.  Not yours.”  
  
Rhaegar knelt by her side, his eyes so very sad.  “And yet I trust the Hand in his decision to leave me to rule in his stead.  It is also my place to do this.  The Hand must focus on the most important matters in the realm.  My father's kidnap is just that.  Lord Estermont’s grievance with Lord Manwoody is nothing in comparison.  And it is easily—”  
  
“Roar!   I am Meraxes the fire wing!” Viserys yelled, running and butting his head against Rhaegar’s side.  
  
Rhaegar stared at his brother, confused.  Viserys head-butted him again.  “You're supposed to fall over,” he hissed to Rhaegar, then, for good measure, yelled another “ROAR!”  
  
This time, Rhaegar fell, making a rather spectacular motion of it, throwing his arms above his head and twisting his torso so that he landed facedown on the ground while his legs remained in the kneeling position.  
  
“I am the dragon!  None can defeat me!” Viserys began to run around the room, roaring and pouncing.  He downed Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, and Prince Lewyn, all of whom had learned from their Prince’s example.  
  
Rhaella set her embroidery aside and grabbed her little son when he passed her, tugging him into her lap.  “No!  Mother!  No!” squealed Viserys.  
  
“You may be Meraxes, but even the dragon heeds its mother,” she said, her hands gripping his little ribs firmly.  “Now, you’d best go and bring your brother back to life.  The realm has great need of him.” Viserys pouted, but she raised an eyebrow at him and he scooted off her lap and tugged Rhaegar’s hair.  “Come on.  Wake up, brother.”  
  
“But I was slain.”  Rhaegar’s voice was muffled by the carpet.  “Dragon's can't come back to life, you know.”  
  
“Fire cannot kill a dragon.” Viserys replied and for a moment, he sounded as serious as Rhaegar.  
  
Rhaegar seemed to think about it for a moment, then he sat up. “All right, then.”

“Will that do?” Viserys asked Rhaella.  She smiled at him and kissed his cheek.

Ser Arthur cleared his throat.  “You are alive too.  I’m undeading you.” Viserys announced.  
  
“That's good,” said Ser Oswell, sitting up as well.  “It would have been rather difficult to explain to the Lord Commander why I could no longer fulfill my duties.”  
  
“I expect he would have been rather confused,” agreed Prince Lewyn, rising to his feet.  
  
“The Dornish lads and lasses would have celebrated my newfound freedom, since only death can release the vows,” winked Ser Arthur.  “Good thing our fine Prince put me back under them or else there would have been a great deal of…” he cut himself of, catching Elia's eye before changing the subject.  “I thought I fought rather valiantly.  Nearly had you, didn’t I?” he teased, pressing Viserys’ nose.  
  
“No.  I beat you.”  
  
“Bested by a child.  All three of us.  What will the Lord Commander say?” sighed Ser Oswell dramatically.  
  
“I’m not a child.  I'm Meraxes!  Roar!” He made to take off running again.  
  
“Viserys!”  Rhaella's voice cut through the room and everyone turned to stare at her. Her voice never cut through the room. Lord Tywin’s did—cut like Valyrian steel when he wanted it to—but never hers.  “Not inside,” she murmured.  “Not inside, my love.”  
  
“I can’t  _go_  outside, though,” whined Viserys.  “It's  _raining_  and Elia says I will get  _sick_.”  
  
“You could practice your letters,” Rhaella said hopefully.  
  
“No!  I don't  _want_  to.” If only they were dragons…  
  
“Come, brother,” Rhaegar said, getting to his feet at last, “Why don’t I read to you.”  
  
Viserys blinked at him.  “Read to me?”  
  
“Yes.  I’ll read you a story.  Surely you have a favorite?”  
  
Viserys stared at him, then looked at Rhaella.  She only ever told him stories.  She didn't read to him as she had to Rhaegar.  What stories  _could_  she read a boy so uninterested in letters? He much preferred songs and stories of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian the Fool.  
  
Rhaegar crossed the Solar to the little shelf by the window in which Rhaella kept all the books she’d read to him as a child, and tugged one loose.  Then he sat down on the ground by the fire and crossed his legs, waving Viserys over.  
  
Viserys, glanced between Rhaegar and his mother, as though expecting some sort of trick, then he went to sit in Rhaegar's lap. Rhaegar wrapped his arms around his little brother and opened the book to a story in the middle, and before he had even opened his mouth, Rhaella knew which one it would be.  
  
“A long time ago, a lizard decided it would eat the sun.”  
  
Elia smiled and picked up her needle once again.  But Rhaella could not sew, not now, not while Rhaegar was reading. She never heard Rhaegar read anymore. When he had been younger, he’d read to her to show her that he could; then he had stopped, because reading aloud was too slow and he could finish faster if his mother wasn’t there to listen, and besides, he didn’t make mistakes anymore. He never made mistakes now. And the silence of him sitting quietly in the solar and reading histories to himself had drained away what small solace Rhaella had.  
  
“Why would he do that?” asked Viserys.  
  
Rhaegar frowned. Clearly he did not know, though Rhaella remembered distinctly that she’d been asked that very question once.  She'd said “boredom,” though Rhaegar had not been content with that answer.  
  
“To see if it could,” Rhaegar replied at last.  “It was a very bright thing.  And lizards like bright things.”  
  
“But wouldn’t it be too little to eat the sun?” Viserys asked.  
  
Rhaegar smiled.  “Well, listen to the story,” Rhaegar pointed to the page, his finger trailing under the calligraphy on the page that Viserys so often found indecipherable, “This lizard was huge, and had lived for a hundred years.  It was so big that it put hills to shame, and when it moved, the ground shook beneath its feet.  You see, it was unlike other lizards: it had never stopped growing.”  
  
“Like a dragon!” Viserys inserted excitedly.  
  
“Yes. Exactly like a dragon.  Now, this big lizard was lonely.  He spent all day by itself.  All other lizards ran from it.   They were young, and small, and did not know that they had nothing to fear from their older friend.  And he dared not venture near the homes of humans, because if he did, they would chase him away in fear.  They’d light torches and bang pitchforks and shout until he ran away.”  
  
Rhaegar’s voice was like honey on the tip of a spoon being dipped in warm tea, melting smoothly into your drink. It was captivating, light, resonating somewhere beneath his tongue. How he had loved this story as a child. He’d begged her to read it at least three times a week, eyes wide and earnest. Once, he’d even offered to read it to her, though he had stumbled over the words.  
  
“He spent the days lonely, this giant lizard, wandering the earth from the shadow to the desert to the sea, wondering if he would ever find another old lizard like him.  But he didn’t.  His only company was the sun, the moon and the stars.” So very lonely. Rhaegar had always seemed so lonely, despite his friends. Though he had had Arthur and Jon at his side, how little he seemed to be aware of them sometimes. They could have been on the other side of the narrow sea and it might have made no difference to him on some days; on others he would play and run and talk with them, but never laugh and oh—how laughter was important for companionship. Could she have loved Joanna and Nymeria if they hadn’t constantly striven to make her laugh? Even now, Rhaegar did not laugh, and only rarely smiled… “Another hundred years passed, and the lizard only got bigger and bigger until finally, he looked back and saw that the ridges on his back had grown so huge that they flopped over sideways.”  
  
Rhaegar turned the page, and for a moment, Viserys looked excited. He reached out to trace his hand over the illumination on the page. She remembered it well: a large green lizard slithering between the curves of the first word. Perhaps she should read to Viserys more often.  
  
“When he tried to get them to sit back on his back, as they had when he was younger, he found that he couldn't.  They fell even further to the side until they dragged on the ground, great useless things that they were.  
  
“On and on trudged the lizard, the ridges of his back dragging on the ground, his feet growing tired and his toes becoming distorted from all the walking.  
  
“And then, one day, as he wandered through the great grass sea, the wind came.”  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaella saw the soft curtains in the window flutter from the wet breeze outside. She caught Elia smiling to herself as she began the next sun in her pattern. She was an observant girl. Perhaps, in the end, she would be good for Rhaegar. She would see how hard he was to know, how hard he could be to love, and she would know how to know him, how to love him. Rhaegar needed to be learned, and perhaps Elia could learn him.  
  
“It shook the world, this wind.  There are no trees on the great grass sea, and all the better, for they would have fallen.  Even the grass got ripped up, and grasses do not leave the earth in storm.  The great lizard kept walking, wondering if the wind could buffet him.  It certainly made his eyes sting something dreadful.  
  
“He sat on his haunches and made to cover them, but in his old age, his body had grown in length, but his arms had not.  His arms barely reached his chin.  In his distress he cried out, and found that the storm matched his rage and he couldn't hear it, so he cried louder.  Louder and louder until it was not so much a cry as a roar, more powerful even than the whistling wind. And, finding that the roar suited him, he stretched out all his limbs, as if daring the wind to take him down.  
  
“To the lizard’s surprise, he fell over, sprawling amid the dirt of the uprooted grass.  He looked around and saw that his floppy back ridges were now so big that they seemed to have caught the wind.  Gingerly, he moved them.  Then, he got to his feet and waved them.  To his delight, when the wind caught him, it lifted him off the ground.  He flapped the back ridges again and this time, took to the sky, rising above the wind, above the clouds, to the peaceful blue sky where the sun awaited him.  
  
“The sun burned hot against the lizard’s skin, but he didn't care.  The wind was enough to cool his old scale, the blue of the sky was calming to his tired eyes.  Higher and higher he soared, higher until it was just him and the sun in the sky--no clouds, no little birds to flock to him in curiosity.  
  
“In a rush of excitement, the lizard thought,  _I shall do it.  I shall catch the sun.  And eat it, for all the trouble it has caused me!_  But the higher he rose, the larger the sun grew, and when the lizard reached it he realized too late that the Sun was much too big for him to eat.  
  
“The sun was hot—so very hot.  Much hotter than the sun had been on earth and the Lizard grew afraid.  Surely nothing could burn so hot, and if it did, then mightn’t it hurt to try and eat it?  
  
“Flames bubbled across the Sun's surface, and for one horrified moment, the Lizard was afraid that it would be killed.  One flame went right at him and as it did so, he opened his mouth to roar again and inhaled the flame straight into his stomach.  When he roared again the fire exploded out of him, but it wasn't all gone.  He had swallowed so much of it that he wasn't sure he’d ever be able to let it all out, and that it would just be sitting in his stomach forever, waiting to be let out in spurts.  
  
“It was then, that the sun spoke to him.  ‘You can't eat me,’ the Sun said in a low grumble.  
  
“The Lizard—”  
  
“Dragon,” Viserys interrupted.  
  
“What?”  
  
“It's a Dragon now.  It flies and roars and breathes fire.”  
  
“It's just a great lizard.  There were firewyrms beneath Valyria of old that could breathe fire too, but they weren't dragons.”  
  
“But this one’s a dragon,” Viserys insisted.  
  
Rhaella smiled.  Rhaegar had been so shocked when she'd first read him this story.  He'd been convinced, really convinced, that the Lizard had a different fate than to become a dragon.  Dragons were splendid thing, Rhaegar had said.  Dragons were great and mighty, not some battered old lizard that wanted to eat the sun.  
  
“That’s the whole point,” Rhaella had replied quietly.  “Anyone can be a dragon, old or young, weak or strong.  A dragon is a dragon.  ‘A dragon is daring and bold and wise because it’s old,’” she recited the rhyme her mother had so often whispered in her ear when she'd been younger and afraid of how tall Ser Duncan was.  How silly it was to have been afraid of Ser Duncan.  He was a gentle soul, a kind man. It would have been far better to have been afraid of someone else.  Maybe if she’d told her mother she was afraid of Aerys’ temper, they wouldn't have had to be married.  
  
“Listen to the story,” Rhaegar chided gently.  
  
“It’s a dragon,” Viserys muttered as Rhaegar continued.  “The Lizard knew this, of course.  The sun was much too big, much too hot.  It would burn him up on the inside, even if he stayed here a thousand years.  ‘But,’ the Sun said, ‘You are the closest anything has come to me in a million years.  So I’ll make you a gift.’  
  
“The Sun looked over at the moon, further away from him than even the earth, and the moon knew and cracked open.  A thousand tiny dragons sprung forth, flapping their wings, spitting fire, and filling the sky with their screams.  ‘I’ll give you sons and daughters to keep you company in your sunset years. You are the first of your kind, but you shan’t be the last.’  
  
“The old Dragon—”  
  
“See?” Viserys practically sang.  
  
“Yes.  You're very clever,” Rhaegar replied, and opened his mouth to continue reading. But Viserys wouldn’t let him.  
  
“I know a dragon when I see one,” Viserys sounded so very proud.  
  
“That’s good,” Rhaegar no longer sounded gentle, paternal.  He sounded sad again, and Rhaella wondered why. She couldn’t always tell what brought on his sadnesses. “It’s up to you to see the Dragon in everyone now.  Lest we forget what it means to be fire made flesh.”  
  
Viserys looked up at him, confused, but Rhaegar did not explain.  Instead, he turned back to the book, and when he spoke, there was no longer a levity to his voice. “The old Dragon turned in the air and laboriously,” the word Rhaegar had always struggled over when he had read to her, “pumped its wings back towards earth, hoping, praying that he would be able to find his children, and that they wouldn't be scattered to the four winds.  
  
“He landed on the side of a mountain that belched flame,” Viserys giggled at the image, and Rhaella’s heart glowed at the sound, “and roared again, hoping that his children would come to him.  
  
“He waited six thousand years, roaring and spitting flame and hoping, but they did not come to him.  He grew so old that his wings were stiff, his scales petrified, and, in horror one day, he realized he could no longer take flight.  He could only roar and soon his jaws locked shut and the only thing he could do was wait, and wait, and wait.”  
  
Rhaegar closed the book.  
  
“But it can't be over!” Viserys said petulantly.  “It can't be.  He never found his family!”  
  
“Not all stories have a happy ending, little brother,” Rhaegar replied, placing the book on the floor.  
  
“But it's about dragons,” Viserys pouted.  
  
“Doubly so for stories about dragons,” Rhaegar said dryly.  “All the dragons are dead, little brother, and we can't hatch their eggs anymore.”  
  
Viserys looked over at Rhaella, his eyes wide and violet and wet, his lip trembling.  
  
“The dragons did find him in the end,” she said quickly.  “That is the story of the creation of the dragons and Mount Dracarys in Old Valyria.  The dragons did come home to him one day, and he was at peace at last.”  
  
“Until the Doom,” muttered Ser Arthur.  Elia swatted his leg with the back of her hand.  
  
“But what does it matter?  He didn't live anymore.” Viserys was still looking at Rhaella, but she didn’t know how to answer.  Rhaegar did though.  
  
“Because he was still a dragon, even in his mountainous form.  Just as I am the dragon, though I am a man, and you are a dragon though you are a boy, and mother is a dragon.  Dragons fill us all and live on in our very existence.  So too was the mountain still a dragon.  Perhaps not a mobile one, but a dragon nonetheless.  Why do you think that Valyria was such a good home to the dragons who came there eventually?  Because the Old Lizard—”  
  
“Dragon,” Viserys corrected.  
  
“Dragon,” Rhaegar agreed, “made it a home for him.  He was truly…” Rhaegar’s voice tapered away, and he looked over at his mother.  “Truly a good father in that.”  
  
Rhaella closed her eyes.   _No, my sweet son.  Do not think like that_ , she wanted to scream at him.   _Do not think of him and put sadness in your heart_.  
  
“Like our father,” Viserys asked.  
  
Rhaegar only nodded, his eyes still on Rhaella, and, at last, Viserys looked content.  He slithered off Rhaegar's lap and began crawling across the ground.  
  
“What are you doing, little Prince,” Elia asked.  
  
“I am the Lizard.  Too young to be a Dragon, but I'm learning.” Then, as an after thought, he mumbled, “I can’t roar though.  What noises do lizards make'?”  
  
“A kind of gulping thing, My Prince,” said Ser Arthur quickly.  
  
Viserys gulped loudly and Ser Arthur cracked a grin.  “Very good.  Just like that.”  
  
Viserys gulped again, crawling across the floor.  Rhaella glared at Ser Arthur, but he didn't seem to notice.  
  
Rhaegar got to his feet and stepped over his brother's crawling body to settle in the empty chair at Elia’s side. He kissed her cheek and took her hand in his, though he did not look at her. He was looking at the window, distant once again, and Rhaella noticed that his hand was limp in Elia’s.  
  
“I had never heard that story,” Elia remarked, looking up at her husband. Behind them, Viserys rolled around on the floor, gulping loudly.  
  
“It’s from a book a Maester wrote five hundred years ago, Valyrian stories collected before the Doom. There are others like it, about the origins of dragons, and the gods,” Rhaegar said, eyes still fixated on the stormy sea.  
  
“It was his favorite growing up,” Rhaella interjected.  
  
“I should like to hear more of them,” Elia smiled shyly at her husband. “Perhaps you will read them to our son.”  
  
He placed a hand on her belly, still flat, but carrying new life. “It would be my honor.”  
  
 _A good father_ , Rhaella thought,  _he will be good. Better than Aerys. Better than Aerys at everything_.  
  
And for a moment, one quiet evening, hope began to burgeon in her breast.


End file.
